


Worth the Wait

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, GASP, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Sharing a Bed, Smut, johnlock anniversary, there was only one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29065968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: When a case leaves John and Sherlock stranded in a cabin in the snow, an invitation to share the only bed leaves Sherlock wanting... but not for long *winkwink*
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 151
Collections: Johnlock Anniversary - January 29th





	Worth the Wait

**Author's Note:**

> If Sherlock believed in such things, he’d call the cabin a gift from the gods. The sun had set hours ago, and if it hadn’t been for the abandoned structure appearing in the woods like so many fairy stories, they would be well on their way to freezing. It wasn’t meant to snow this much—not in January, not ever. How their luck had extended to a pile of logs left indoors, catching easily against Sherlock’s lighter flame, he would probably spend the rest of his life wondering. As it was, they were safe now, and had only to wait until morning to find their way out of this forest that time forgot. 

A rustling sound broke through the silence of the deep night, followed by a shallow cough. Sherlock turned to face John where he had fallen asleep still clothed in the cabin’s double bed. The moonlight streaming through the room’s only window illuminated his sterling hair. Dark eyes were shrouded by something Sherlock could not define as his friend reached out a calloused hand. 

‘Come to bed, Sherlock. There’s enough space for us both, and it’s cold.’

He knew he should resist. He should make an excuse, offer to build up the fire, layer his own coat with the simple quilt that had been left behind. But that something in John’s eyes… He rose slowly, limbs cracking with the stiffness of winter set in deep. He wasn’t young anymore, and one of these days, he would have to admit it. Sherlock toed off his shoes, grateful once more for the fireside chair he’d been occupying as he realized the feeling had not left his extremities. Great woolen armour fell across the foot of the bed, and he shrugged off the suit jacket that felt as though it had been holding him together all evening. In all their years, all their adventures, they had managed never to fall asleep in the same bed. Upright on planes, or splayed awkwardly in train berths, sure. But, somehow, never this. Sherlock aligned his body with the edge of the mattress closest the fire, and cursed the lure of body heat on his other side. John’s bad shoulder pressed into his bicep, shooting poison darts of emotion through his sternum. One night. He only had to get through one night. 

And then, Sherlock was waking into the stillness of pre-dawn. Breath was puffing, soft and rhythmic, against his ear. A hand was resting on his abdomen. Curse his transport. Curse decades of repression and determined hopelessness. Sherlock couldn’t decide which was worse—the twitch of his cock against foolishly well-fitted trousers, or the twitch of his heart against foolishly ill-fitted love. He lay in misery for only thirty-six seconds before his mind betrayed him with an image of John Watson, fresh from a hot shower, and he was forced to exhale through his mouth as his physical predicament outweighed its emotional counterpart. It would be fine. John was asleep, he wouldn’t notice a few rogue breaths—but a hand sliding toward his belt suggested otherwise. Trust a bad situation to get worse. John must have been dreaming, must have assumed he was with one of his former girlfriends, must have thought anything except that he was dangerously close to touching—

‘Sherlock…?’ His accent was rough through the shards of moonlight reflecting through the window. ‘Sherlock are you… D-do you want…?’

Sherlock couldn’t speak. He was afraid to even think the words, afraid that it would cause too great a disturbance to whatever secret energy was rippling around them. Instead, he placed nervous fingers atop John’s, their hands sliding down together to discover the answer. John pressed once firmly with his palm, then dragged down Sherlock’s zipper, which cut through the night with the metallic hiss of unspoken desires. Sherlock loosed his own belt, praying to whatever forces he might be too foolish to believe in that he was not making a terrible misjudgement. His fears were assuaged in moments, as he was taken in a firm grasp. John stroked with more force than a surgeon should be allowed, and it was everything Sherlock had ever dared dream. The quilt was kicked away, and the thump of the Belstaff hitting the dusty wood floor grounded him in this glorious reality. 

Breath came hot and uneven against his neck as John panted, ‘Get your hands on me, Sherlock. I want your hands on me.’

Sherlock would not need to be asked twice. Reaching across the chasm of inches separating their bodies, he found John’s trousers already open and waiting. Unceremoniously slipping his hand beneath the band of pants he was suddenly desperate to see, to mouth, to watch flutter to his own bedroom floor, Sherlock wrapped long fingers around a thick, pulsing cock and almost choked on the knowledge that this was for him. 

‘Sherlock…’

There was no mistaking the object of John’s lust, no way to convince himself this wasn’t what the other wanted. 

‘Fuck, Sherlock. Finally! Yes…’

There was little risk John would regret this, either, as silver hair fell back against the coverless pillow, exposing the pulse in his neck that matched the hot throbbing beneath Sherlock’s palm. 

‘God, Sherlock. Kiss me… for fucks’ sake, kiss me!’

John's lips were more delicious than Sherlock could have imagined, tasting of cold and need and home. Tongues tangled lightly together as they worked each other’s bodies, panting and rutting into the air until Sherlock began shaking with his impending climax. 

‘Yes… God, yes! You’re so beautiful… fucking come for me, Sherlock. Show me what you can do with that perfect cock!’

Sherlock’s mouth sought John’s again, pressing lips on lips just as his body released a decade of tension into the night. He was blind with the force of it, relying on the unbelievable sounds of John falling over the edge to prepare him for the warm rush over his fingers. This would be hell to clean, and he could not be arsed to care. John’s forehead leaned against his own, and he spoke with such tenderness that Sherlock thought he might cry. 

‘Eleven years today, Sherlock.’

‘John?’

‘You were worth the wait.’


End file.
